Phoenix
by gtgrandom
Summary: When the dropship rockets are detonated, the explosion kills 300 grounders and leaves Bellamy Blake severely burned. But this doesn't stop him from going after Clarke. Obviously. (A Bellarke twist on season 2)
1. Chapter 1

**So this is something I've been slowly putting together since the season 3 finale. Let me know what you think!**

* * *

 _"Zal and Rudabeh," she decided._

 _"Really?"_

 _"It's a love story. Like Romeo and Juliet, but with a happy ending."_

 _Bellamy nodded. He supposed Octavia identified with Zal, the man cast away when he was born._

 _"What's your favorite myth, Bell?"_

 _"Persephone."_

 _Octavia snickered. "Of course you'd like the sad one."_

 _"How is it sad?" he cried. "It shows a mother's love for her daughter. It shows how a man who only knows darkness and loneliness can fall in love. And more importantly, how Persephone, rather than living in fear, adapts to her new life. She accepts her duty and rules her kingdom, better than Hades really. She becomes a queen. Goddess of the Underworld."_

 _Octavia rolled her eyes, mouthing_ neeeeerrrrd _. "But...she left Hades. They were in love, and she still went to the surface. Over and over again. And he had to watch her leave."_

 _"Yeah. She keeps leaving him, over and over. But O; you're looking at the glass half empty. The best part, is she keeps coming_ back _."_

* * *

OoO

* * *

The first time he woke, he blacked out again almost immediately, only catching a whiff of human ash.

The second time, he couldn't so much as inhale without his nerves catching fire. He tried to move, idiotically, and fisted his mouth to stifle hoarse screams of pain.

His entire left side and most of his chest had been scorched. He wasn't even sure he _had_ skin anymore. What remained of his jacket stuck to his bleeding, blistered body, and he groaned in frustration at being rendered immobile by his pain.

Clarke.

Where was Clarke?

He spent some time taking in his surroundings, trying to distract from the wild throbbing in his...everywhere. He'd been pushed back into the dense shrubs from the blast—he remembered briefly swatting at himself to put out the flames, stumbling down over the trench—leaving him here in the ditch they'd dug to thwart the attack.

He was in a fucking grave.

He chuckled mirthlessly but immediately regretted the tremors it sent through his body.

Still—even if he was concealed, Clarke would have come looking for him by now, right? Some time had passed, if the festering wounds on his body were any indication. So where were the delinquents? The Grounders?

Was he alone?

Wasn't he _always_?

Wondering what had happened made him sick to his stomach, and knowing there was nothing he could do about it stung the back of his eyelids.

 _Come on, Clarke._

He didn't know how long he'd been 'lying dead in a ditch' but he figured enough was enough. He was fucking thirsty and he needed to clean this shit before he had to deal with radioactive infections or super-evolved maggots.

Honestly, nothing could surprise him anymore.

Digging his nails into the soil, he forced himself into a sitting position, pausing to ward off the black dots in his vision. Favoring his right side, he managed a crouch, eyes crushed against the sharp sting of scabbing flesh.

Okay.

He exhaled deeply, and then pushed to his feet.

 _Fucking shit._

He almost blacked out again, but he pressed on. He was done with moving slowly, with being patient. Easier to get it done quickly. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Or more accurately—the top layer of his skin.

The silence of the camp urged him to crawl out of the trench, away from the other dead bodies. No noise. No bustling movement. It meant it was empty. And Clarke was gone.

Which meant she was in trouble.

He bit through his cheek trying to pull himself up, blood trickling down over his chin to join the dirt and raw skin.

He managed to half-limp, half-crawl to the dropship, and he collapsed against the wall for support, eyes hooded with grief.

There was nothing left.

Everything they'd built—destroyed.

Everyone who built it—gone.

Bellamy had suspected as much, but it still served as a slap to the face.

He stumbled forward to get a better look. Empty dropship. Empty smoke canisters. There were footprints crisscrossing over the ash and bones, leading away from Camp.

Bellamy didn't need to be a fucking investigator to figure this one out.

They'd been _taken_.

He hissed against the pain, and he turned back the way he had come.

First things first.

* * *

OoO

* * *

When he peeled off his jacket, he didn't realize he was also peeling off his skin.

Only a half an hour later, when he finally managed to tear the last bit of clothing off with a tiny gasp, did he realize just how badly he'd been burned.

Mostly second degree, on his legs and torso. But his left arm, shoulder, and likely half of his face….

They were third degree. Marred. Singed entirely, almost to the bone. A large portion of his hair had been burned off with half an eyebrow, and even his ear was seared to a stub.

He glanced down at his reflection in the water, horrified by what he saw.

He really did look like a monster now—red and warped and burned.

He would never heal right. He would never look the same. He might not even be recognizable.

If Clarke saw him like this...

He shuddered at the thought.

She would never forgive herself. She would break knowing she had shut that door before he and Finn were inside. He knew her, and he knew that every time she looked at him, she would feel that guilty weight in the bottom of her stomach.

She would hurt, constantly, because of him.

It was almost enough to keep him from going after her.

 _Almost_.

He decided that jumping into the water would probably kill him—he'd either die from shock or drown or get eaten by a killer eel. With his luck, probably all three. So he crouched by the river and carefully rinsed his wounds, handful by handful.

He found his mind wandering to Clarke again; found that it fought away the pain, as if she were really here. Funny, how he'd grown to rely on her and her hope. Her strength. He supposed if the 100 had her to lead them, they'd be alright. She would figure out a way to keep them alive.

But _where_ did the Grounders take them?

What kind of retaliation did they have in store?

* * *

OoO

* * *

He'd been hoping to run into Octavia when he'd limped all the way to Lincoln's, but he knew they were probably miles and miles from the dropship. He just wanted to know if she was okay.

No. She _had_ to be okay. Clarke and the others too.

Everyone was fine.

He didn't know when he'd become the hopeful guy. That was Clarke's job. His role was to question her ideals, then stand by them. That was familiar territory. _She_ was familiar territory.

 _Stop thinking about Clarke_.

The fort was empty, save some dried jerky and a few ointments that Bellamy wasted no time in exploiting.

Once patched up in leaves and seaweed and bandages made from his old clothes, he slumped against the ground, breathing heavily.

He couldn't tear his eyes from his hand.

His knuckles were bare bone. The soft pads of his fingers red and pink and peeling. It looked so…alien.

Would his sister cringe if he tried to hold her with this hand? Would Clarke shy away from him at the sight of his face?

He knew those were shallow thoughts to be thinking when his friends could be fighting for their lives or taking turns being tortured.

But he couldn't push it out of his head.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Three days later when he could move and function and even _fight_ if need be, he shrugged on Lincoln's wardrobe. Full Grounder apparel. He covered his still-tender hands in fingerless gloves, and armed himself with several knives, mourning the loss of his gun.

On his way out, he eyed the Grounder mask, and after a brief hesitation, he snatched it off its hook.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Bellamy needed a tracker.

He had no leads. No Finn. Nothing.

He couldn't help but feel every moment that passed was another life lost, another minute closer to Clarke losing hers. He still didn't understand why Clarke's disappearance had rattled him so much, or why his chest ached at the thought of her in trouble. He'd never felt that way about someone other than Octavia.

Was it because without her, he was alone in this? Did it stem from selfishness again? Or was it because he considered her a friend now—a partner—after everything they'd been through?

He wasn't sure. He didn't care. He just had to get her— _all_ of them out as soon as possible.

So he did the most rational thing, and he headed for a Grounder village.

* * *

OoO

* * *

He tossed the fox furs onto the table.

The woman's eyes rose slowly, measured interest.

"I need information," he said quickly.

She regarded him carefully. "You speak the old language. Where are you from?"

He ignored her, deciding to follow Lincoln's example of brevity.

He flashed the side of his face, the scars just visible beneath his mask. If she knew anything of importance, she would recognize the significance of his wounds.

She lifted her chin. "You _survived_ …" her voice rose with wonder.

"Where did they take the Sky People?" he demanded, losing patience.

"They didn't take them anywhere," she breathed, drawing the furs back towards her. Bellamy slammed his hand over his trade, gaze leveled. He wasn't done.

"What happened to them, then?"

She wrinkled her nose. "The scouts tell me their camp was vacant. Trikru was not responsible."

Bellamy felt his gut plummet and rise simultaneously. The Grounders hadn't sent reinforcements to retrieve his friends. Which was good news. But if they weren't in Grounders' hands, where were they?

The woman eyed him strangely, and bored with his silence, she turned to a new customer.

Bellamy pushed the man aside, ignoring his shout of indignation. "If someone took them, where would they have gone?"

"Why is it of your concern?" she said curtly. Aggravated.

"Why is it _yours_?" he countered.

She was perturbed at his obstinacy, but she realized he wasn't leaving until she gave him something of substance. "This is just speculation…but it could be the Mountain Men."

Bellamy's brow furrowed. He'd heard that before. From Octavia. These Mountain Men…even the Grounders feared them. But again, where were they?

"You mean…Mount Weather?" he tried.

She shrugged, "It's where our people disappear to. I suppose the Sky People are no exception."

Bellamy wanted to press her further, but the man waiting to trade shoved Bellamy out of his way, and he didn't want to cause a scene. He walked away, wrapped in his thoughts.

So Mount Weather had its own tribe then. A tribe with knock-out gas and acid fog.

Fucking super.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Clarke stared up groggily at Anya between labored breaths.

She was confused. Just moments before they had worked together to escape Mount Weather.

Now…

Now the Grounder was tying her hands together.

"Wait...my people—" Clarke began, trying to sit up. She did not jump off a cliff and swallow an entire lake just to go back into another cell.

But she didn't get a chance to speak her mind.

Anya stiffened above her, and just as the woman turned her head, a large fist knocked her aside. Clarke braced herself for the Mountain Man's gruff hands—the nightmare of a hazmat suit.

Instead, another Grounder stood before her. Hooded, with a mask composed of animal bones covering his face. She could only make out his eyes. Dark brown hues, like the soil beneath her fingers.

He stared at her, unmoving.

Clarke swallowed. "I…"

Her voice prompted him into action. He crouched beside her and reached for her hands, which she retracted quickly, as if stung.

His calm eyes waited for her permission, and when she realized he wasn't planning on hurting her…yet…she let him approach.

Tentatively, he untied her.

Her gaze fixed on his. There was nothing but softness in those eyes. It was a look she was not accustomed to seeing on a Grounder's face. A vulnerability she hadn't come across since Lincoln.

"Who are you?" she whispered, awed by her rescuer.

He helped her to a standing position, holding her steady, and then he was suddenly ripped from her vision. Clarke spun, gaping at the sight of Anya straddling the Grounder, hands at his throat. He struggled beneath her, but his attempts were futile.

"What's your clan name, traitor?" she hissed, pressing down against his neck. He grimaced against the pressure.

"Anya—" Clarke tried, but the woman ignored her. Clarke huffed, searching the banks for some kind of weapon.

"Answer or die," Anya pushed, fingers taught around his throat. The man choked, feet kicking uselessly.

Clarke's hand curled around a heavy stone, and she knocked it fiercely against the warrior's temple. Anya crumpled. And this time, she stayed down.

The Grounder sucked in oxygen, wincing as he straightened. Clarke could hear shouts from the tunnels of the mountain, and she helped the man up, urging him to hurry. "We need to get out of here," she stressed, unsure why she had decided to trust this stranger.

She would deal with him and his intentions shortly. But she could use his manpower for now.

He nodded, silent, and they made for the trees. They'd reached the line of birch when Clarke glanced back at Anya's still form.

"We can't leave her," she said, slowing. The Grounder looked at her like she was insane. Maybe she was. "They'll just put her back in a cage. You don't know what it's like in there. She doesn't deserve it."

The Grounder seemed to imperceptibly sigh—as if this were typical behavior of her—and she didn't miss the look of fondness in his brown eyes as he trudged back to Anya and hauled her over his shoulders.

* * *

 **Bellamy is so next level.**

 **Next chapter up...relatively soon?**


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke finished removing the chip from Anya's arm—a device she'd discovered after the long, tactical pursuit of the Mountain Men. She'd left her in the cover of the underbrush, hoping one of her own would come to her aid before the sick monsters of Mount Weather found her first. At one point she'd hoped for an alliance with the woman, but Clarke supposed it would take a lot more to convince Anya of her merits. And she just didn't have the time.

The Grounder hadn't said a word this entire time. He just stood off to the side, standing guard.

"What's your name?" she asked him slowly, in case he was unfamiliar with English.

They began to walk away. Where—Clarke didn't know. At the moment she didn't really care. As long as it was _away_.

He looked at her over his shoulder, silent, contemplative.

She frowned. "You're not going to tell me."

He glared a little, and for some reason, it made her chuckle. It was oddly familiar.

"Atlas," he said, almost a whisper.

She smiled slightly, taking larger strides, so as to catch up to him. "Clarke."

They walked in silence for a few moments, and Clarke was startled to realize the atmosphere wasn't tense or guarded. She wasn't afraid of him turning his blade on her. It went against all logic, all her past experiences, and yet she felt safer than she had since she first awoke in Containment.

Was she concussed? Had she swallowed too much water?

What was it about this Grounder that set him apart from the rest?

His rough voice broke through. "Where are your people, Clarke?"

She chewed her bottom lip, trying to keep her eyes from clouding up. "They're being held captive. At Mount Weather. They've…got your people too."

"My people?"

"Grounders. Anya's kind," she elaborated. Then again, maybe he wasn't from Trikru. He _did_ attack their leader and rescue her, after she barbequed an entire army of Grounders. Could he be an acquaintance of Lincoln's? Did he not know she was responsible for the mass murder of all those people? "My friends….they think they're safe. They've got shelter and cake and friendly faces. But behind closed doors these people are conducting science experiments. They're draining our blood."

The Grounder looked up, frowning, as if taking mental notes. "How did you get out?"

"It was kind of an accident," she said, deciding not to dive into more detail on that particularly traumatizing experience. "But I have to go back for them. Once I come up with a plan…" she trailed off. Who was she even going to ask to help her? Anya was gone, clearly not interested in cooperating. Octavia might be somewhere. But the two of them weren't enough.

She needed Bellamy. She'd always needed him, from day one on the ground.

She slowed, her stomach bottoming out.

Bellamy. _Finn_.

Atlas glanced back at her when she stopped walking. "What's wrong?"

Everything was wrong. She could lead, yes, but not without her support. She couldn't rebound without her backboard.

"I…think I killed my co-leader in the blast," she confessed, pressing her lips together to keep from crying. She shouldn't be confiding in a total stranger, but that very fact made it easier. He was listening. And that was all she'd wanted for the past however many days—weeks.

Someone to listen.

"You don't know that."

The words surprised her. They were exactly what she'd said to Jasper and Monty, to assure them that there was hope. But hope was dwindling quickly.

"No. I shut the dropship door before he could get in. Before either of them could." She would never get the image out of her head. Finn and Bellamy fighting for their lives so she could save her people. She only hoped they'd been killed by Grounders before she incinerated them herself.

"But you saved all those kids."

She swallowed back the pain.

"I know. It's just…he's my friend…" she whispered. It came as a shock to her, really. Bellamy Blake. Selfish jerk with a mushy center. Her partner. Her rock.

He wasn't the type to just…fizzle out without a bang. To disappear. To die on her.

"Then I'm sure he understands your sacrifice," the man said stiffly, nodding once as if to urge her to forgive herself.

Clarke straightened, smiling a little at his attempt.

* * *

OoO

* * *

It began to rain heavily, pushing them to find shelter. When they finally came across a small alcove in the rocky surface of a canyon, Clarke sighed with relief.

She was tired and sick to her stomach, and she just wanted to sleep for a month, curled up in soft, clean blankets.

But first she needed to make a fire.

It was strange. She didn't even have to voice it—Atlas already sought the dry branches, while she had gathered a pair of sticks for igniting the grass. No communication had been required.

She hadn't felt so in sync since….

She shook her head, kicking thoughts of Bellamy away.

Atlas hadn't bothered keeping her in sight or tying her up. It was like he'd known she wouldn't run off, like he'd had faith in her return. It became apparent that Clarke wasn't his prisoner, wasn't obligated to stay.

She wasn't sure how to feel about that.

He dropped the wood before her, handing her his canteen.

She graciously accepted, though she still sniffed the contents before sipping the water. She was pretty sure he rolled his eyes.

* * *

OoO

* * *

They sat around the tame embers, hands out to the warmth. Atlas sat across from her, eyeing the entrance to the cave warily.

She couldn't take it anymore.

"Why are you helping me?" she blurted.

He didn't answer her for a good minute, and she figured he just wasn't going to respond at all when he said, "Because I want to."

She poked at the fire. Not the answer she'd been hoping for.

"Are you going to turn me over to your clan?"

He cocked his head at her, exasperated. "I don't have a clan."

He was on his own? A rogue? Perhaps he'd been exiled, and that's why he attacked Anya.

"Do you know Lincoln?"

His eyes flickered to the side, then back. He nodded.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. So she had an ally. Sort of.

"I'm just looking for answers, Clarke…" he said tiredly, as a means to convince her he wasn't a threat. The way her name rolled off his tongue seemed strangely…pleasant.

She nodded, gazing back at the fire. "I don't have many," she admitted. "And I...I really don't know where to go from here."

He leaned back against the rocks, resting his head against the stone.

"We'll figure it out later."

She snapped her head at him, stung by the choice of words, but then a figure dropped down in front of them, a shadow at the entrance.

Clarke scrambled back, and Atlas raised his knife, shoulders taught.

"Show yourself," he commanded.

The figure dipped out of the rain into the warmth of the cave.

Clarke's face split into a welcome, disbelieving smile.

"Octavia?"

* * *

OoO

* * *

After some time, Clarke convinced Octavia that Bellamy—Atlas—was to be trusted.

Her words made Bellamy flinch. Trust? She trusted him? He wanted to break character just to reprimand her for letting her guard down so easily. He could have been a rapist or a cannibal for all she knew.

Fucking Clarke and her habit of seeing the good in everyone.

"Where's…Lincoln?" Clarke asked his sister.

Octavia had changed drastically during their time apart, and it hurt Bellamy to see her this way. She was harder, chiseled. She looked like a _warrior_.

It made him fear he'd been rotting in a ditch for more than just a few days.

Octavia recoiled at the question, then schooled an expression of indifference. "Gone."

The explanation died there. Bellamy wondered if Lincoln had abandoned her, or if he'd been killed. He didn't know, but he wanted desperately to take his sister in his arms and never let go.

Unfortunately, she'd probably slit his throat if he tried.

"Clarke, where is everyone?" Octavia said, and her eyes upturned with fear.

"They're alive," Clarke assured her. "For now."

Octavia swallowed thickly. "And my brother…"

Clarke's breath hitched in her throat. "He's…not with them. Neither is Finn. I haven't heard from either of them."

Octavia's eyes watered, but she simply nodded and slipped past them into the depths of the cave.

Bellamy's eyes ghosted over Clarke's, but she didn't meet them. It didn't matter. He knew the motive behind her lie.

Clarke thought he was dead. She didn't want Octavia to lose him too. At least not yet.

She was lying to protect her, like he was protecting Clarke.

Truthfully, he didn't know why he was lying to Clarke, playing Grounder, especially when she was so concerned about his whereabouts. But the moment he'd seen her there, breathing, _alive_ , he'd gone into lockdown.

He hadn't wanted to remove the mask and freak her out—not in the midst of their escape. She would seek aid, try to heal him, take them off course. By then it occurred to him that revealing himself would be detrimental, even given the right circumstances. It might have doused the stressful fire in her head, but if she'd seen what she'd done to him, what she might have done to Finn—it would burn on a new level of guilt and shame that he couldn't bear to watch.

Worst of all, she might have rejected him. Especially now that he'd lied to her.

The strange relationship they'd established, the one based on trust and interdependence—that easiness between them could be stripped away the moment he removed the mask.

He wouldn't risk losing that. Losing her.

Not yet.

So he kept digging himself a deeper hole.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Clarke had asked Atlas if she could use one of his knives to carve her own, and he'd given her the one in his hand and told her to keep it.

Now she was really confused.

Who was this guy? Why did he so openly trust her, after she murdered so many of his kind?

"So...have you been secretly stalking me?" she whispered against the sound of the rain outside.

She didn't know why she felt like she could joke with him. Any other Grounder might confuse her sarcasm for an insult and kill her right then and there.

But Atlas merely smiled, or...at least it looked like it, by the way his eyes crinkled.

"I may have been...watching out for your camp."

"Why?"

He shrugged. His silence was kind of infuriating.

"Thank you for coming after me," she said, and he shifted, looking at her deeply from across the fire. She'd realized that had been his only motive for his trek. To rescue her. He had no plans now. Nowhere to be, other than by her side, apparently.

It was endearing, albeit, a little creepy. She was getting lots of Tarzan and Jane vibes.

She hoped it wouldn't end the same way her brief partnership with Anya had.

He blinked, and he looked down, pleased.

"Why are you wearing that mask?" she wondered aloud.

He breathed in softly, and he turned his head back to the entrance. "You should sleep."

* * *

OoO

* * *

Clarke shifted in her sleep, overheated, sweating.

An intense heat lapped at her legs, then her torso, and her arms. She finally opened her eyes, shuffling back on her hands in terror.

She was consumed in fire.

The heat blazed, blinding her with its fury. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes watered as she braced the inferno.

"Clarke!"

She jerked, peering through the fire for the voice.

"Bellamy?" she cried, lungs failing.

Out of the smoke and orange tendrils she saw him—that familiar stalk, that head of unruly curls.

She exhaled shakily and shot for his silhouette until the dark shape was no longer two-dimensional but real and alive and —

"Oh my God!" she gasped, throwing herself into his arms. He engulfed her, a cool river in this world of fire. She breathed him in, relieved. She didn't know when Bellamy had become so important to her. It had just struck her that night when she'd pulled that lever.

That a life without Bellamy Blake was somehow colder, darker, and much, much lonelier.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm here, Clarke."

She didn't want to let go for the fear of losing him again. For the fear of waking up.

"I'm sorry," she choked, gripping him tighter, tucking her chin to his shoulder.

His hand cradled the back of her head, holding her to him.

"You're _forgiven_."

The words latched onto her heart. He felt so real, and it made it all the more upsetting.

"In peace may you leave the shore…" he began, and she could feel him crumble.

"No…"

"In love may you find the next…" he whispered, and she shook her head, pulling him closer. But it was too late; he was already fading. Slowly, dreamlike, he turned to ash, turned to embers in the fire she'd set on him.

He burned in her arms, and she lost him again.

* * *

OoO

* * *

"He was watching us sleep," Octavia whispered the next morning.

Clarke frowned, glancing back at Atlas. He was slumped against the wall, hand on his knife, but eyes closed, seemingly asleep.

"Do you trust him?" she asked.

"Yeah," Clarke said, surprising herself. "I do."

Octavia said nothing, but there was a curious glint in her eye. Clarke didn't blame her; she didn't understand it either.

But perhaps Octavia could sympathize. She'd seen the humanity in Lincoln before the rest of them. She'd realized not all Grounders were enemies.

"What's the plan now?" Octavia pressed.

"We have to find a way to get our people out of Mount Weather. But first we need some supplies. I need to be able to draw out the blueprints of the place."

"We can go to Lincoln's village. There are people who might help us there. I know the way," Octavia answered, already packing her things.

Clarke supposed it was as good a plan as any.

She looked at Atlas for confirmation, then berated herself. Why would she look to him for advice? He wasn't…

She fought the strange tide of emotion and returned her focus to planning a rescue mission.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Clarke saw the massacre as it was happening, and she lost all feeling in her limbs. So much bloodlust. So much carnage.

Bullets rained. Grounders cried out. Octavia and Murphy yelled at Finn to stop.

Finn. The Finn she had loved at one point or another. Finn. The peacemaker.

At the sound of Octavia's shrill scream, the gun turned on the three of them, and Atlas was stepping in front of Clarke protectively.

She could only watch as the bullet shrieked, striking the Grounder in the shoulder.

Atlas crumpled, and after shooting a warning glance in Finn's direction, Clarke was at the man's side, pressing firmly against the flesh wound.

The sound of gunfire subsided. Leaves crunched as the shooter approached.

"Finn...what...have you done?" Clarke croaked.

He stepped forward, and she shrank into Atlas slightly. Finn didn't miss it by the flash of hurt on his face.

"I was trying to find you, Clarke. I didn't know he was with you...I didn't..."

Clarke couldn't even meet his eyes. She turned to Murphy instead.

"I tried to stop him," the criminal muttered before she could admonish him.

"You didn't try hard enough."

Murphy rolled his eyes, wiping the blood off his chin.

"Clarke," Finn sighed. He was on the verge of tears. So was she, but she kept her focus on Atlas's wound. On his painful inhales.

She'd been anticipating her reunion with Finn more than she'd like to admit. But now she regretted ever coming here. Regretted ever seeing him again—it wasn't worth the pain of a warped memory.

Murphy aimed the gun at the Grounders gathering around the five of them, wary of the livid expressions. "Look, we need to get out of here. Let's just get back to Abby and the others."

Wait. Abby?

"My mom is—the Ark's here?" Clarke murmured, her hand stilling for a moment before resuming its pressure. She'd seen the Ark crumble on its descent. She'd assumed no one survived.

Murphy nodded. "The whole lot."

Clarke let out a small puff of incredulity. They'd made it.

Kane. Abby. Jaha.

This changed everything. They had the Guard. An army. They could get their people back.

"Raven?" she remembered suddenly.

"Paralyzed," Finn replied, eager to get a word in. "But safe."

Clarke glanced at Atlas, and the man seemed to exhale in relief. She wondered just how familiar he was with their camp and its delinquents.

"Clarke," Finn continued. "Where are the rest of you?"

She exchanged looks with Octavia, who was tending to an injured Grounder, seething at the massacre.

"Not here," Clarke answered darkly.

 _And neither are you._

* * *

OoO

* * *

"Who's he?" Finn asked once they made it back to the cave.

"His name is Atlas. He's a friend," Clarke replied curtly.

"Clarke…you're really going to trust—"

"Don't talk to me Finn," she snapped, turning heads. "Not right now."

That seemed to tick him off. "The last time I saw you, you were shutting the dropship door on me and Bellamy. I just wanted to see you again, and I thought you were in trouble. We all thought you needed saving—"

"Saving from _you_. God Finn! Look what you've done."

The words left her mouth before she could think them through. Finn swallowed and bent his head. Even Murphy looked disgusted.

"I'm sorry," she managed, closing her eyes to block out the pain and shock of what just occurred. "I…I just need some time."

"Wait, what does he _mean_ you shut the door on him and Bell?" Octavia wondered, voice wavering.

Clarke felt the world fall away.

 _Shit._

 _Shit, shit, shit._

She swallowed. "Bellamy wasn't inside in time. I had to make a decision."

Octavia's eyes widened—bond shattered, trust broken. "You shut the door on my brother. Then fried him with the Grounders."

Atlas shifted uneasily in the corner. Clarke sighed. "Octavia… I had no choice. He still might…he might be…"

Octavia rolled her eyes, and she stalked out of the cave. Clarke wouldn't be surprised if she didn't return. Nor would she blame her.

* * *

OoO

* * *

"I need you to take off your shirt," Clarke said. She _needed_ a distraction.

Atlas ignored her, continuing to prep the fire. "I'm fine."

"No. You were shot. That is the definition of not fine."

After another five minutes of pestering, he finally conceded, turning away from her and sitting down as he gingerly removed his upper body-armor, save his mask.

Clarke couldn't help her wandering, widening eyes.

For a moment she couldn't breathe.

His skin—shit, he'd been so much more than burned. The wounds were healing, but there was an inch of scabbing, scarring flesh all over his left side, up his neck, across his face, which he kept pointed away from her. As if he were ashamed. Remnants of leaves and seaweed stuck to his skin, and she knew then he'd attempted to treat his own wounds.

"Oh my God…" It was like staring at Atom again, only this man was still alive, still pushing, still fighting. "You were there that night," she managed.

He didn't deny it.

"You were fighting…with us…and I did this to you," she muttered, coming closer.

He shifted away from her touch. He refused to look at her, so she sat beside him on the rock, facing the opposite direction in order to operate on his shoulder.

"I'm so…" her lip quivered as she took in the damage. There was no recovering from this. Not completely. "I'm sorry," she cried.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the bullet wound. Her fingertips grazed his skin, and he flinched, sucking in through his teeth.

"Sorry," she repeated.

She'd done this to him. He was so ashamed, so angry, so traumatized, that he couldn't even look at her.

She'd killed all those people.

She'd killed _Bellamy_.

Tears welled in her eyes, making the stitching process much more difficult.

A warm hand landed on her thigh, and her eyes flew to his blistered cheek bone, his jawline, searchingly.

"It had to be done," he said softly.

Her fingers stilled on his arm, and she closed her eyes, allowing a few sparse tears to fall.

How could he forgive her for this….? How could he go out of his way to protect her, and her people, after what they'd done?

She could feel Finn's eyes burning holes in her shoulder blades. Octavia's glares. Bellamy's empty presence. And she could feel Atlas's hand, warm and gentle and burned.

* * *

 **Bellamy what, what, what are you doing?**


	3. Chapter 3

Bellamy ached all over.

His scabbing skin itched like a motherfucker. Kept bleeding through his shirt. His _only_ shirt.

His shoulder screamed all night long, and he wanted to wring Finn's neck for the pain he was putting him through.

God dammit.

He turned over again, hissing and cursing under his breath. Even his fucking hair was gone. He'd hacked most of it off after his makeover, leaving a messy undercut.

Cool fingertips brushed his forehead, and he started, grabbing hold of her arm tightly.

Clarke didn't move, but she did raise an eyebrow.

"Sorry," he said, letting her go a bit bashfully. Didn't she know not to wake a guy with PTSD and suicidal tendencies?

"You sound like you're in pain. Eat some more of these."

He wanted to tell her they tasted like piss and tree bark, but he refrained. Grudgingly, he took the herbs out of her hand.

 _Whipped_ , Miller would have said.

"Do you think he's alive? Bellamy?" she asked after a moment.

Bellamy wanted to fucking shoot himself. Why was she so upset about his death? Since when had she cared about him so much?

"I…do _you_?"

"Finn made it, but...he said he looked for Bellamy that night, and there was nothing but ashes…" She'd gotten a lot of it out earlier, but there was still a waver in her voice. And he wanted nothing more than to rip off his mask and reveal himself.

But he was a coward.

He sighed, chewing on the medicinal plants. "Do you know the legend of the phoenix, Clarke?"

She shook her head.

"There's a myth about a bird with magical properties. At the end of its lifespan, it would burst into flames."

She gave a small smile. "It would light itself on fire?"

Bellamy chuckled. She sounded just like O back when their mother read them stories. Sarcastic and hypercritical.

"Sort of. But from the ashes, a new phoenix would be born. And a new life cycle would begin."

"Grounder philosophy? Burn the world down and hope it grows back?"

Bellamy was glad she couldn't see his toothy grin. "It _means_ ," he continued, "that life carries on. Pushes on. That new life can spring from the ashes."

She bit her lip, looking down at her hands.

"You just have to look for it."

* * *

OoO

* * *

"Murphy's right. We need to head back to the Ark. They'll help us get our friends back."

"And if they won't?" Finn murmured.

Clarke pulled the strap over her shoulder. "Then we take the guns and get them ourselves."

The group nodded, determined to save their friends.

"Do you really think that will work?" Atlas wondered from behind her.

Clarke didn't mask her annoyance. "What do you mean?"

"What happens when you cross that river, and the Mountain Men activate the acid fog? Or whatever other biological warfare they have at their disposal?"

Clarke narrowed her eyes. Atlas had a very advanced vocabulary for a man raised with no technology.

She raised an arm. "Then what are you thinking, Atlas?"

"You need an inside man. Someone to organize an attack from within," he decided. "How else are you going to breach their security?"

Clarke chewed her lip. That was putting a lot of faith in one person. The only candidate she would even consider would be Bellamy. And Bellamy was dead. At one point she would have trusted Finn to accomplish such a feat. Now, she had no one.

"...Clarke?"

She shook her head. "It's too dangerous to send someone in for that long, alone. We don't have the resources to communicate with them. We don't even have a plan to get them out."

Atlas opened his mouth, then closed it. "You can't just charge them blind, Clarke. We don't know what they're capable of. We need some way to get in, at least 24 hours before the attack. Or the reapers will wipe us out."

"The reapers..." she muttered, eyes expanding. "The reaper tunnels!" She smiled at the confused faces around her. "That's our gateway. Our best chance is through the mines."

"You said those were like a maze, though," Octavia cut in. "How would we even navigate—"

"I can do it," Atlas interrupted.

Murphy scoffed. "Do _what_?"

"I can pose as a Reaper. Map the passage. Find a route. Report back to you."

Clarke shook her head. "Atlas, I can't ask you—"

"You're not. I'm volunteering."

They stared at one another, and Clarke's heart shuddered in her chest. She had chills up and down her arms, for no reason. A fear, pestering in her stomach, for no reason. She didn't know if it was dread or anger or something else—a sixth sense. But if terrified her.

"Well…we should hurry. They'll come for us now that we've massacred an entire village," Octavia said curtly, glancing sharply at Finn.

Before another argument could break out, Clarke nodded and ushered them out of the cave.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Clarke shoved a gun into Bellamy's hand—Finn's weapon—and it took him a moment to process what was happening.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm teaching you how to shoot."

What.

Bellamy opened his mouth to protest—arming a Grounder? Was she nuts?—but she beat him to it.

"I'm not letting you go into those mines without some way to defend yourself," she said fiercely. "Just...please learn this. For me."

He wanted to tell her he was probably the most skilled shooter he knew, but he simply nodded. Hell, whatever got him a gun.

He pretended not to know how to hold it properly, so she adjusted it for him, perfectly really. He'd taught her well. Her eyes lingered on his scarred hand for a moment, guilt palpable, and he cleared his throat.

"Shoot that tree over there," she instructed, pointing to the ribbon she'd tied to the branch. She really went all out.

He missed on purpose, and she smiled. "It's okay. It takes practice. Try again."

He laughed inwardly. After a few more tries, he got a little full of himself and shot straight through the knot, setting the ribbon free.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, impressed.

"Beginner's luck," he offered, but he couldn't suppress his cheeky grin.

* * *

OoO

* * *

They stood at the gates of the Ark.

"You could come in," Clarke offered.

"No. I couldn't."

He didn't belong there in the first place. His people were in Mount Weather. Not the Ark. He was only one thing in their eyes—a criminal. Now, a fiend.

She nodded, understanding. Then slowly, like a gentle wave, her arms enveloped him, and she was hugging him, holding him tightly. "Thank you, for everything," she said.

He'd wanted nothing more than to hold someone—hold Clarke—since he'd been burned, and after a brief hesitancy, he wrapped his arms around her. He closed his eyes and felt for just a moment, the loneliness disappear.

She pressed her lips to the stretch of his scarred shoulder, and they thinned into a smile.

"May we meet again," he whispered in her ear.

She tensed, pulling back to look at him strangely.

"We will," she whispered, brows furrowed, and Octavia was urging her to hurry, and she was walking away.

Before she entered the gates, she looked back at him, curious, contemplative.

And she smiled.

* * *

OoO

* * *

It took him longer to find an entrance than he'd like to admit.

It looked like some kind of underground car garage, pitch black save for the light of Finn's guard baton. He gripped his gun a little tighter and kept moving.

A part of him wished he could just break into Mount Weather and stage as a guard, weed them out from the inside. But with his scars he could never go unnoticed.

He was marred.

He instantly thought of Clarke's tears as she stitched his shoulder. Ever since she'd seen what had happened, she'd spared him worried glances incessantly, demand he take it slow, thrown her gaze away when he'd caught her staring.

She was obsessed with what she'd done to him.

Was there ever a chance to go back? Could he ever just be Bellamy again?

He paused, his mind reeling on.

Maybe that was the issue. Maybe it had nothing to do with Clarke. Maybe he just…didn't want to be Bellamy anymore.

As Atlas, people looked at him with fresh eyes. They hadn't witnessed all his mistakes. They couldn't see the trail of blood behind him. If he wasn't Bellamy, then he hadn't killed his mother. He hadn't tortured Lincoln.

He could start over.

And wasn't that what he'd always wanted?

A blank slate?

* * *

At the entrance there were six men on their knees, a group of Reapers surrounding them, itching for human flesh. Down the line, several others in Hazmat suits stood guard.

Mount Weather conducting one of their science experiments, no doubt.

Bellamy was simply a spectator, observing the evils of the human race, watching, waiting. But then the last figure caught his eye. His tan skin shimmered with sweat and blood. Stern eyes and an unnerving sense of stubbornness.

 _Lincoln._

So he hadn't abandoned Octavia.

He'd been taken.

The sight alone sent Bellamy hurdling into action.

The disguised Grounder surged, taking out the first two guards with the baton. The others stood in shock, unprepared. Lincoln caught on quickly and head-butted the woman in the hazmat suit, swiping his legs around and sending her to the ground.

Bullets rained, but Bellamy tore through, yanking Lincoln to his feet and pushing him toward the exit.

With his cuffed hands, Lincoln took out the last Reaper blocking their path and nodded for Bellamy to lead the way.

Just as they were about to clear the tunnel, something pierced Bellamy's neck. A sharp, familiar sting.

A needle.

Lincoln tackled the second hazmat suit, but it was too late. She'd drugged Bellamy with something powerful. He shook his head, trying to ward off the symptoms.

"Come on," he urged, and Lincoln followed.

* * *

OoO

* * *

"Stop right there!"

Bellamy couldn't. He was falling the fuck over.

Lincoln tried to catch him. In vain. You know, in retrospect, he really didn't try that hard.

Bellamy smacked the ground and tasted grass. Everything duplicated, quadrupled…

"Don't shoot!" he heard a familiar voice. "Put your goddamn gun down or—"

Another, softer. _"Lincoln?"_

There was a shuffle of feet, and then Clarke was at his side, hoisting his head into her lap. Her hair fell around his face like sunshine, and he smiled. "Atlas. What happened to you?"

Bellamy's gaze flickered from Clarke to Lincoln and Octavia, hugging and sobbing, reunited. His heart gave a kick. He hadn't seen Octavia that happy in a long time.

"Atlas, hey," Clarke shook him gently. "What's wrong?"

Lincoln—"They injected him with something. It's what they give to the reapers."

Octavia peeled away from the Grounder to stare at Bellamy, wild-eyed. "Clarke, you have to get it out of his system!"

"Help me get him inside," she said, but Bellamy was already zoning out, giving in to the drug. He'd brought light back into his sister's eyes. He'd seen Clarke again.

It was more than enough.

He didn't fight the darkness.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Octavia's gaze burned. "Why did you save Lincoln?"

Bellamy fidgeted under her scrutiny, glad he had the mask to cower behind.

"I…know him."

"Lincoln says he's never met you before."

Bellamy didn't know what to say to that. So he merely sat there, in the med bay, and waited for the wrath.

"You saved Clarke, you took a _bullet_ for her. You charted the mines, and then you bring Lincoln back to me."

He felt hot. He needed an escape. This reminded him of his mother, right when she cracked down on a white lie.

Octavia checked the hall behind them, then brought a knife to his throat. "Who are you _really?"_

He couldn't deny it; he was kind of proud of her for seeing through him. For not blindly trusting every Grounder who claimed amity.

He sighed. "Do you know the story of Atlas?"

The knife pressed down further against his neck, drawing blood.

"Don't avoid the question."

"He was a titan. He was a criminal, and as punishment, he held the sky on his shoulders. Kept it from crashing into the earth…" he looked up at her, tilting his head, begging for understanding. "O, he had a sister."

The stress on his throat waned, and Octavia's eyes widened with disbelief, then watered.

Her face broke around the word.

"Bell."

She wrapped her arms around him, gasping in sharply between her teeth. He held her back, chuckling as he shed a tear.

He'd missed her.

She shuddered in his arms. "I thought I was alone. I thought—"

Bellamy pulled back to look at her. "You're not alone, O. I won't leave you." He grinned up at her red eyes, brushed the wetness from her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. "I swear."

She wiped her face, her nose. Then she frowned at him. "Why are you hiding behind that mask, you asshole?"

"I'm not hiding. I'm just…" he looked down. "Waiting." Trying to decide if going back to Bellamy was even worth it.

Octavia crossed her arms. "She thinks you're dead, Bell. We all do."

Bellamy didn't have to ask who 'she' was.

"I know. I hate myself for it. But I'm not ready."

"Just tell her. You told me."

"You had a knife to my throat."

"She needs you."

There was a ghost of a knock at the door, and Clarke smiled at them. "Sorry. Am I ruining a moment?"

Octavia sent him a pointed look and shook her head. "No, I was just thanking him for saving Lincoln. See you… _Atlas_."

He glared at her a she walked away, but it was half-hearted.

He had her back. He had his sister back, and that meant, he had a part of himself back too.

Clarke quirked an eyebrow, coming closer to check on him.

He swallowed. "How's Finn?"

"Haven't really talked to him. I can't even…look at him the same."

"Clarke…" he began, but he didn't want to seem patronizing, so he moved on. "How are _you_?"

She ignored him and lifted his shirt up on his chest. He glared at her, and she frowned. "Please? So I can check your burns. And your shoulder."

When he realized she wouldn't take no for an answer, he relented, lying on his back so she could apply whatever medicine they had in stock to his charred body.

Gently, she rubbed the cream over his wounds, unfazed by the gore and pus and scar tissue. It reminded him of when he'd first realized his princess was a badass. It was the day she'd ended Atom's life and stroked his hair away from his face as he passed. From then on, he'd always try to catch her when she was operating on someone or bandaging a wound. There was something distinctly Clarke about it, the way she worked to save a life.

Blood from his scabs trickled down over her fingers. "You don't have to do that, you know," he said.

"And you don't have to risk your life for me and my friends. Yet you do."

"I want to," he corrected.

Her knuckles grazed his jawline. "If you let me take this mask off, I can tend to your face."

He flinched away, and she retracted her hand.

"I'm sorry. I just…can't," he said, wincing at how fucking lame he sounded.

She nodded and backed away, as if he'd told her she was unwanted company. She distanced herself, but not before he grabbed her hand.

She froze, and he almost let her go, but she just looked so defeated, so hurt.

"Someday," he said, and she looked up, locking eyes with him.

A small smile lit her face as she squeezed his hand.

"Okay."

* * *

 **Progress.**

 **Just not for Bellamy...**


	4. Chapter 4

Another person eyed him cautiously as he passed.

People had been giving Bellamy fearful glances and heated glares all afternoon. Clarke had ordered him to stay by her side, and he wanted to tell her that these were _his_ people, that they wouldn't kill him.

But now, he wasn't so sure.

He wasn't Bellamy anymore.

To them, he was a Grounder. He was like Lincoln.

And their hatred, their prejudice—it wasn't right. He could see that now.

"I have to go talk to the Commander. Before they attack," Clarke continued.

"No," Abby said sternly—fearfully.

"Mom, I have to try. If we run, we abandon our people in Mount Weather. And we abandon hope." Bellamy smirked at her persuasiveness. Clarke was manipulative, and she knew it. But she always had the right intentions. "Please. Let me go."

Abby studied her daughter, glancing once at Bellamy, then back.

It must have been hard, raising someone like Clarke. Someone so brave and stubborn and selfless. It made him respect Abby, just a little.

"Fine."

Clarke visibly relaxed, happy to have her mother's approval. Not that it would have deterred her. But he supposed it was one step closer to mending their relationship.

"But Clarke," Abby added, voice grave. "If this fails…it's over. For all of us."

"It won't fail," Bellamy declared, and both Griffin girls shot him a look.

One dubious. One proud.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Clarke glanced sideways at Bellamy when he followed her to the gates.

"Um…you can just stay here. With Lincoln and Octavia. They'll—"

"I'm going with you."

She gaped at him.

"They told us only one," Clarke reasoned. "She won't let you."

"Then she'll have to kill me, won't she?"

Clarke frowned at him, but she seemed to realize there was no arguing with him on this one. She nodded.

Bellamy may have backtracked on the idea that all Grounders were evil by nature, but he wasn't taking any chances with Clarke.

"Leave your weapons," the guard demanded, eyeing Bellamy's gun.

Clarke gave him a look, and he sighed, handing over the firearm, as if he were parting with a loved one.

"Do you take me for a fool?" the Grounder muttered, when Bellamy made no further attempts to unarm himself.

Bellamy rolled his eyes and opened his jacket, dumping out several hand grenades and a few hunting knives. Then he turned out his pockets—and his shoes.

When he glared at the guard, asking him if he was satisfied, they were finally allowed inside.

Bellamy didn't miss Clarke's fond smile.

"Clarke of the Sky People."

They slowed to a halt, gazing upon the Commander.

Clarke bowed her head, but Bellamy merely glared. This. This chick was the ruler of all the fucking Grounders? The hell? She was a fucking teenager!

A Grounder in the back reached for her sword. "Such disrespect. Let me end them now—"

"Stand down, Indra."

The older woman glared at them with the most hatred she could possibly muster. Bellamy was impressed. This must have been the woman O had spoken of.

"We come seeking an alliance," Clarke said slowly.

Lexa raised a critical eyebrow. "After you killed 300 of my people?"

"After you sent them to murder mine."

Lexa studied them, mouth tight. "What need do we have for an alliance? As far as I'm concerned, you're the weak ones."

Bellamy struggled not to sneer.

Clarke sent him a warning look, as if sensing a slip of tongue. "We have a common enemy. The Mountain Men."

Lexa's dark eyes flickered with recognition.

"I'm sure Anya has revealed to you what we're up against." Bellamy could hear the slight desperation in Clarke's tone. A lot relied on Anya. Her honesty.

"There is no we."

"Not yet."

Lexa lifted her chin at the challenge, and Bellamy wanted to smile. He didn't know how Clarke had become such a diplomat after the fiasco with Anya at the bridge. But he was proud of her.

"Why would we want to fight beside you?" Lexa pushed, unsatisfied with the proposal.

"We have advanced technology. Guns. Soldiers. We have resources. But we need your army to breach their defenses."

Lexa said nothing.

"Let me escort them out, Heda," Indra insisted, but Lexa raised her hand to stop her.

"Every minute we waste, they're killing your people and turning them into Reapers," Bellamy hissed. "This is your opportunity to stop this, and then you won't have to fear the Mountain Men anymore."

Indra's eyes flared with annoyance. But Lexa remained quiet, contemplative.

Clarke put her hand on his arm, taming the fire. "We want to get our people out as much as you want to free yours. We stand a much better chance if we work together."

"Who's to say we can? _Work together_?"

Clarke grinned. "Because we already have. Octavia of…Skaikru, and Lincoln, one of your own, have found love. I saved Anya—we helped one another escape the Mountain Men. And here, Atlas and I are a united front. He was wounded in the burning of your people, but he still fights beside me. We're stronger together. We can live in peace. I've seen it."

The silence lingered into the uncomfortable, and Bellamy didn't like it. He inched closer to Clarke, eyeing Lexa dangerously.

These people weren't interested in peace. They were raised in a culture of blood and violence. Of survival of the fittest. And they saw the 100—the people of the Ark—as one thing and one thing only.

A threat.

It was justified, Bellamy knew, but nevertheless detrimental to any treaty or alliance. Both sides saw the other as an enemy. Until that changed...there would be no peace.

"Very well," Lexa said solemnly. "We go to war together. But first we seek justice."

Clarke nodded, yet Bellamy could detect the tension in her shoulders.

"Deliver me the one you call Finn. Our truce begins with his death."

* * *

OoO

* * *

"Atlas…what are we supposed to do?" Clarke whispered as they walked back, haunted by the new information.

"You have to tell them the stakes."

She glanced at him worriedly. "You can't let groups make a decision. Mobs act out of anger and self-interest."

"I know," he said, his throat catching. They'd learned that lesson early on. "The decision is up to you and your mother. But…Clarke, you know better than anyone that sometimes sacrificing one life for the lives of everyone else..." he caught himself. He wasn't supposed to know about her father. "I don't know if there's a way out of this."

"We'll figure something out," she insisted.

He said nothing, and when they reached the gates, he grabbed her hand.

"I'm going to stay out here. Keep an eye on things. I'll alert you if anything changes."

She nodded, but her mind was devoted to Finn and how to protect him.

Even after everything Finn had put her through, she still loved him. Clarke, despite her hardness, was the most compassionate person he'd ever known. Because she always saw the good in people. She always recognized the light.

"Hey," he said, hand tightening, despite the pain it caused him. She looked up at him under her lashes. "It's gonna be okay."

She didn't believe him, but the words seemed to console her.

They might not win this battle, but they'd be okay. Someday, they'd pull through this.

* * *

OoO

* * *

He tensed when he heard her hop down into the cavern.

Fuck.

How the fuck did she _find_ him? Did he have a chip or something?

He reached for his mask, keeping his back to her while he adjusted it over his face. He was too deep into his lie now. He couldn't reveal himself even if he wanted to.

"You killed him, didn't you?" she whispered.

Straightforward and to the point.

As soon as Finn turned himself over and they'd strapped him up to that pole, Bellamy had realized there was no solution. They couldn't save Finn. Not this time.

So he'd taken a knife from a distracted Grounder, and with one practiced throw, he ended Finn's life in front of the Ark and Lexa's army. In front of Clarke.

Then he'd ran his ass off to Lincoln's, praying no one followed.

Like usual, his prayers went unanswered.

"I'm sorry," he breathed quickly. "I thought he shouldn't suffer…"

He heard her sniffle, and he turned around. Tears were streaming down her face. It was a rare sight.

"Thank you," she cried, wiping her face with her sleeve. "I was going to do that myself. Kill him before they could torture him. But…"

"I know."

That's why he acted first. To save her from the pain of killing her loved one.

He could carry that burden for her. Keep her from shattering. He would carry the world on his shoulders if it meant saving her strength. The 100 needed her to persevere.

"I um…I have to go to TonDC tomorrow. They want to properly dispose of his…body," she choked. Her hands were trembling. She was on the verge of a breakdown. "You'll…come with me?"

"Of course," he said, growing sore at the sight of her puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks.

"Can I…" she swallowed, her bottom lip jutting out the way it did when she was nervous, "Can I stay here tonight? I can't go back. Not to Raven and the others."

He couldn't stop himself from stepping forward, hands reaching for her.

The gesture made her unbuckle, and she fell into his open arms, unraveling.

"Clarke..."

He held her close to his body, rubbing circles over her back and her arms. Her sobs sent tremors through her entire body, and he couldn't take the sound of her heartbreak.

"I…should have done more," she said, and Bellamy shook his head. "He thought I hated him…."

"No. He knew you loved him," Bellamy assured her quietly. "This was his way of making things right. He died a hero, Clarke. Don't take that away from him."

He guided her to the corner of the cave where they could sit. She collapsed with him, cries turned to hiccups, to shivers.

She didn't remove her arms from around his waist, and he stroked the hair out of her face.

He'd never been this close, this intimate with Clarke.

But it wasn't sexual desire coiling in his stomach. It was…well, he wasn't sure. He'd never felt it before. That heat, that warmth—it was new.

She fisted his shirt in her hands, her cheeks damp against his neck. Eventually, her exhaustion wore her down, and she slumped against him, asleep.

"You love too much, Clarke," he muttered against the silence. "It's going to kill us both."

* * *

OoO

* * *

Clarke woke up with sticky eyes, engulfed in warm, toned arms.

Her head was tucked up in the crook of Atlas's neck, her lips pressed against his skin. He was asleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest lifting her entire body, like she was floating.

At first she felt guilty, lying there with another man the morning after Finn had passed.

But then she found herself staring at Atlas's cheekbone, a bit of unscarred tissue just visible at this angle beneath his mask.

Were those…freckles?

Her eyes narrowed, and they trailed up to the stretch of exposed face, his closed eyes.

She removed one of her hands from his chest, resting her fingertips on his mask.

"You're curious," he muttered suddenly, startling her.

She wrenched her hand back, frowning apologetically as he opened his eyes.

"Can you blame me?"

He shifted, and they clambered to their feet, standing apart. She missed his heat of his embrace immediately.

"No," he admitted, stretching his arms above his head.

"Are you ashamed of what you look like?" she asked. Because she could care less if he even had a face at this point. He was her friend.

"I don't think you could handle it."

"I've seen some pretty gruesome things, Atlas."

"No, I mean… I'm just too handsome." He winked at her, and she guffawed, shoving him gently.

"Sorry. I'm afraid you're runner up to Bellamy as far as devilish good looks go," she murmured, moving for the exit.

She heard him trip over his own feet before following her out of the cave.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Clarke sat in the middle of camp, between Grounders and Skaikru, poking at the fire.

"He's really gone."

"Finn?" Octavia guessed.

Clarke blinked, then frowned. "No…Bellamy."

Octavia's eyes clouded. "Clarke—"

"I've been hoping all this time that he'd just…show up. That he'd have broken out all our friends from Mount Weather and asked me what I've been doing sitting on my ass all day."

Octavia laughed. She'd seemed to forgive Clarke for basically murdering her brother. And Clarke was glad to have a friend in her again.

"But it's been so long. If he survived, he would have tried to contact us by now. He would have followed the Grounder army and found camp. He would have done anything to see you again."

Clarke bit her cheek to keep the sob in. She glanced at Atlas's sleeping form at the other end of camp. She felt as though she'd replaced Bellamy. And it felt wrong.

"Sorry," Clarke muttered, shaking her head, "I know you're hurting much more than I am…"

Octavia shifted closer to the fire. "I didn't know you and Bell were so close, Clarke."

Clarke glanced up, heart stalling. "I guess we weren't. I just hadn't realized how much I depended on him. I really needed him, when we were running things."

"So you miss having a partner."

"I miss having a _friend_ ," Clarke corrected. "Bellamy was special. He…he made a lot of mistakes, but he had such an open heart. Not everyone could see that."

"You did."

"Yeah, I did."

Bellamy had so much potential, had so much room to grow. And it was taken from him.

And that was the saddest part.

* * *

OoO

* * *

 _"So much for letting go of your old ways," Finn said._

 _Bellamy turned away. "I'm sorry, Finn. I did what I had to do."_

 _"You murdered one of your own friends so the girl you love would come crawling back to you. You can't hide from who you are, Bellamy. You're a monster, inside and out."_

 _Bellamy closed his eyes, trying to make the apparition disappear._

 _"They would have tortured you…" he tried._

 _"And yet killing me in front of everyone you care about—that was easier? What happens when they find out? When Raven discovers what you've done?"_

 _"She won't," he replied, throat dry._

 _"What about when Clarke realizes you've lied to her? You think she'll just…forgive you?"_

 _That struck a chord, deep and painful._

 _"No…"_

 _Finn shook his head at him, disappointed. "You're the same as you were before. You can't change. And she'll never see you."_

 _The familiar words echoed in his heart, beating around the empty space._

"Atlas?"

Clarke gently touched his arm, shredding his nightmare.

His hand was already taught around her forearm, and he tried to release his grip, but couldn't. Wouldn't.

When he didn't let her go, Clarke's eyes swam with understanding.

Gently, her hand covered his, and she pulled him up.

"What are you doing?" he said, trying to ignore the soft heat from her skin. The way she calmed his racing heart, yet sent it back into overdrive with her touch.

She didn't answer him. Wordlessly, she guided them to her tent and under the flap.

"Clarke…"

She gave him a _look_. In silence, she made herself comfortable in the furs, tapping for him to lie next to her.

When his back started to ache from just bending over, waiting, he slowly lowered himself beside her.

This was a bad idea. Very bad. His heart did things around Clarke, and she was bound to notice.

"They can't get to me when you're here," she whispered.

He turned to look at her, and she was curled on her side, hair splayed out around her.

"Who can't?"

"My nightmares…" she explained. "It's like…you scare them away."

Bellamy snorted quietly. "I scare everyone away."

She inched a little closer. "Not everyone."

He gave a watery smile she couldn't see, and her hand lifted to his mask, resting on the bones curiously. "Isn't it uncomfortable?"

Yes. He never wore the thing in his sleep if he didn't have to. But he had to around Clarke. There was no other option.

Bellamy's panic began to seep in, and she recognized the anxiety spike. "I'll close my eyes," she said. "Just take it off, and I won't look. I promise."

He thought of all the repercussions. What if someone entered their tent before he woke? What if she accidentally looked at him in the morning as she rose? What if…she finally discovered what a horrible person he was?

She shut her eyes, and her deft fingers began to lift the mask from his face.

He didn't stop her.

The bones gone, he felt raw, exposed. He felt…afraid.

She set the mask aside, eyes tightly closed. "Better?" she asked.

"Yeah," he exhaled, resting his head against the furs. She rolled up next to him, back to his chest, warm and so….Clarke.

Bellamy hadn't shared his personal space like this in a long time. Back at camp, when things had been so much easier, he'd begun turning away the girls from his tent each night, dissolving his so-called _harem_. Something about sleeping around with the girls he was supposed to be looking out for, protecting…it took the pleasure out of it. And maybe, he also didn't want Clarke's impression of him to sink any further than it already was. He wanted her to see that he was trying to be responsible. That he was trying. For her.

Yet even when he'd slept around, it was never real.

It was a way to escape reality. A way for Bellamy to feel something, even if it was purely physical.

But now…now he _felt_. The source—tucked against his chest.

The fear dissipating a little, Bellamy swept the hair from Clarke's neck, placing a tentative kiss at her pulse point. It was a bold move, but he felt it was strangely appropriate.

She was still, as if realizing this was his actual skin, that he was real. He wished his face wasn't so rough and scarred, but she didn't seem to mind, if the way she melted into him was any indication. He brushed his nose and cheek against her skin, her jaw, enjoying the foreign feel of flesh against his marred face, breathing in the scent of butterscotch—like sap from a Ponderosa.

She was here. This was real.

She was soft.

His fingers slid down, over her shoulder, to her waist, and linked with her impatient hand.

He felt himself relax, and she nestled closer, letting out a soft sigh.

But Bellamy couldn't help feeling that it sounded rather…forlorn.


	5. Chapter 5

"We're going to start planning our attack on Mount Weather with Lexa tomorrow," Clarke said quietly, as Raven fiddled with the radio, trying to hack the Mountain's frequency again.

Bellamy glared at her.

"Clarke, we can't trust these people."

"We have to."

"No," he said sternly, "We don't." When she gave him that _look_ , he barreled on. "Lexa forced us to watch Finn's culling. She sent an army to slaughter all of your camp. They tried to frame us for poisoning them. Even Anya betrayed you. It's who they are."

Clarke folded her arms, and Bellamy thought he heard Octavia chuckling in the corner. "Atlas, if we want a truce, we have to work with your people. And that truce begins with trust."

"Do you trust _me_?" he asked.

She studied him curiously. "Yes."

"Then believe me when I tell you that we cannot depend on Lexa. Her army can be plan B. But we need to do this our way or no way. You, me, and those kids."

Something Bellamy couldn't identify flashed across her face, and then she gave a reluctant nod. "Okay."

 _"—of us trapped in Mount Weather. They've taken Harper. She might already be dead…"_

"Oh my God," Raven whispered, staring down at the radio.

"Say something back!" Clarke gasped, eyes wide—hopeful.

"I can't. It's just repeating," Raven replied, her thumb ghosting over the device.

"But they're alive," Octavia said.

Bellamy glanced at Clarke, and they shared a single thought.

 _For now._

* * *

OoO

* * *

"The biggest obstacle between us and the Mountain Men is the acid fog," Clarke began.

"Can you contact your friends inside? To see if they can disable it?" Lexa asked.

"We can't communicate with them without risking their lives and this operation," Bellamy said, ignoring the looks of disdain around him. He may have been disguised as a Grounder, but he'd sided with the enemy. He was a rogue, an outcast.

Some things never change.

"We can't disable it from the inside," Clarke agreed. "But the fog comes from different vents around the complex. If we can find the vents and destroy them, we can proceed to the next step."

Lexa frowned. "There could be hundreds."

"If we can destroy the majority of the pipes, the smoke will be dispersed at a much slower rate. That at least grants us the chance to attack," Bellamy explained. "We don't have to take them all out to succeed."

"How do we find them? How do we even get close enough to destroy them?"

Clarke glanced at Bellamy, and he nodded.

"We'll need to keep their eyes focused on something. A distraction. I suggest a skirmish between our people to dissuade any rumors of an alliance. Then several different covert teams will move in and take out the vents once we locate the output."

Lexa didn't like it.

"You want to draw their attention to us on purpose, and send my people on a suicide mission to destroy the mechanism that the enemy will use the moment they spot the rest of us? You may find the locations of the vents, but who's to say they won't use them again before you have the chance to destroy them?"

"It's not a suicide mission," Clarke reasoned. "Atlas and I will both participate…"

"There are too many variables, Clarke," Lexa said with finality, and Bellamy bit his tongue.

"We can't wait to contain this acid fog," a burly Grounder complained. "We don't have time. We have an army, let's use it."

A chorus of murmurs echoed through the small room. This was not going well. If Clarke couldn't convince the Grounders of their plan, they would run out of time trying to come up with another.

Clarke shook her head. "You'll all die if we don't disable the fog first. This is the only way."

"I'm sorry, Clarke," Lexa said, much softer than before. "We will have to find something else."

Clarke's fingers curled around the edge of the table. "We're wasting time looking for other solutions. Our friends—your people— are dying in that mountain as we speak. It's worth the risk."

"You're brave under the protection of the Commander, aren't you?" the same Grounder hissed.

"Quint," warned Lexa, but he wasn't fazed.

Clarke turned to the man, adopting her usual air of dominance. "I'm sorry, did I do something to offend you?"

"Yeah. You burned my brother alive in a ring of fire."

Clarke visibly paled. Bellamy wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder, but he couldn't afford to make her look weak. Not here.

"Then he shouldn't have tried to murder my _friends_."

They had a stare down. And then Quint snapped.

"I won't ally with scum like you," he spat, reaching for his knife.

Clarke stiffened, stepping back, but Bellamy was already between them, thrusting the Grounder back by the scruff of his shirt.

"Who do you think you are?" Quint breathed.

Bellamy's fist tightened around his collar. "The person capable of slitting your throat the next time you threaten her."

The other Grounders shifted, anxious for a brawl. The one to his left started forward to get in on the action, but Lexa's potent glare froze him in place.

"I need some air," Clarke muttered, moving for the exit. Bellamy released Quint with a forceful push and followed after her.

* * *

OoO

* * *

She was sitting against a tree with her head in her arms.

He sat down beside her silently, waiting with his gun in his arms. Fucking Clarke, walking straight into the woods without a single thought. She was going to die one of these days, and he was going to have to travel all the way to hell to bring her back and knock some sense into her.

"This is so hard," she murmured.

"You're pulling it off."

"Barely."

He chuckled, resting his head back against the tree. It felt like ages ago when they'd been in this same position, staring up at the sky for answers.

"Maybe they're right. Maybe this plan is stupid," she said.

"It _is_ stupid," Bellamy said dryly. "But it's all we've got right now. And seeing how nothing ever goes according to plan anyway, I say it's as good as it's gonna get."

She glanced at him from the pocket of her elbow. " _Our_ plans?"

 _Shit._

 _Backpedal the fuck up._

"Mapping the mines. Saving Finn…" he listed, though he could think of a thousand scenarios before then, back when he was her right hand. Back when things were so much easier.

"Right…"

He placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing. "If you can convince Lexa to create an alliance with us in the first place, you can get her to back this plan."

Clarke huffed. "How?"

Bellamy grinned beneath his mask. "By doing what you do best."

She glanced at him curiously.

"Reminding monsters that they're human."

She studied him, her blue eyes flickering between his, searching for something she wouldn't find. Then he heard the snapping of twigs and threw himself over her, pinning her to the earth as an arrow sailed into the tree where her head had been a moment before.

"Clarke, run," he hissed, giving her one last urgent look before rolling off of her and facing the Grounder. He cocked his gun at the enemy.

"Atlas." She stood frozen, resistant.

"Run!" he demanded, and she didn't protest this time. She darted off into the trees, and Bellamy pulled the trigger.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Bellamy spat the blood out of his mouth, leaning his head back against the bricks of the cell.

Fuck the Grounders, man.

They attack _him_ and _he's_ the one who gets beat to a bloody pulp and thrown in prison. No trial. No questions. Just blood and chains.

A few of his scabs had reopened from the beating, but the pain mostly resonated with the fact that Clarke hadn't returned yet. She was out there in Grounder territory, without him.

Apparently the Commander was missing to, and the Grounders who had stuffed him in this cell had the idiocy to suspect the Ark's betrayal. But if they thought the two girls were together, at least Clarke might not be totally alone out there, defenseless.

He'd seen Lexa and Clarke's interactions over the past few days, and he didn't think the Grounder Queen had the balls to kill Clarke. Not like a coward, out in the woods, at least.

She was honorable, albeit fucking crazy.

"Atlas?"

His eyes snapped wide, and he stared as the door slammed open and Clarke came running in the cell, throwing her arms around him.

"Release him," Lexa spat from the doorway, and a few men shuffled inside to untie him.

Clarke didn't move out of the way. She clung to his body tightly, rocking a little.

When he could finally move his hands he held her back.

"You're okay," he murmured into her hair, breathless.

"A few Grounders tried to kill us off to end the alliance. I ran into Lexa and we were attacked by this…radioactive Gorilla. We got a bit lost."

Bellamy couldn't help laughing at that, and he finally pulled away, staring into her wet, glistening eyes.

"A radioactive Gorilla?"

She chuckled, a few tears spilling. She sat back on her knees, taking him in.

"Did they hurt you?" she whispered.

He rolled his eyes, even though her concern tasted sweet. "What matters now is that you're back. I didn't know what happened to you. I thought…"

She frowned and her hand covered his own, resting on her thigh. She breathed out, closing her eyes, and when she opened them again, she was all business.

"Lexa agreed to the plan. We have two days to organize the squads that will take out the vents. If everything goes well, we should get our people back by the end of the week."

So she'd sanded down the corners and gained the Grounder's trust. She seemed to make that kind of thing a habit.

"Nice work," he whispered.

Clarke shrugged, her grin wide. "Lexa's...not so bad, really."

He glanced at the Grounder Princess, waiting in the corner. She was pretending not to eavesdrop, but she had a terrible poker face.

In the end, Lexa had brought Clarke back, unharmed.

Right now, that was good enough for Bellamy.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Bellamy swallowed, his hand gripping the bottle of hydrazine tightly. He stood beside Clarke and Lexa, looking out over a mixture of their people, sending heated glares at one another. Octavia stood on the Grounder side of the crowd. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as did, considering his charade.

They had six different covert teams, readied with the materials to defend themselves from the fog and to effectively disable the accessible point sources. The others were here to engage in a fake battle.

Bellamy wasn't sure how fake it would be.

"You know your roles in this operation," Lexa said sternly, powerfully. The Grounders gazed upon her with silent awe. More like a God than a queen. "Do not disappoint."

Her army grunted something in their language _,_ dispersing.

"Some pep talk," Bellamy muttered to Clarke, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

While the Grounders parted ways, the people of the Ark stood still, waiting for Clarke. They'd wait for Bellamy too, if they had a choice. These were the factory workers and the guards. The janitors and the mechanics. Sent to war.

 _His_ people.

And he couldn't help feeling like he'd abandoned them.

Clarke nodded gravely, and that was all it took to set the plan into motion.

* * *

OoO

* * *

"I would think it would be connected to something distinctly synthetic or man-made," Clarke reasoned, her hand brushing the side of the rock. "I know the facility spreads throughout this entire mountain, but I figure they wouldn't want the ventilation too far from accessibility…for maintenance and things."

"I thought they couldn't leave the Mountain."

"They've got suits," she said. "They can make errands. And if they've been keeping Lexa's people here for that long, doing all of those experiments, they've already found other ways to make it outside…"

Bellamy really wished she wouldn't stand that close to the wall. What if the vent was something completely camouflaged and she just vaporized before his eyes? How would he ever recover from that?

"CLARKE."

Bellamy flinched and glanced at the radio at Clarke's waist. She smirked and pulled it out.

"You taught Lexa how to use the radio?" he said, surprised.

"It…took a while."

He snorted, trying to imagine Technology 101 with a Grounder.

"Are you ready?" Clarke said into the speaker.

"We're in position..." A beat. "Take caution, Clarke."

Clarke's eyes flickered nervously to Bellamy and away. "Copy that."

Bellamy frowned at her. She seemed a whole lot more… _awkward_ with Lexa than she had a few days ago. Friendlier. More comfortable. But awkward.

"What exactly happened when you two encountered _Grod_?" he asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

Clarke's cheeks flushed slightly, only intriguing him further. "We talked a bit. I convinced her to—"

"Clarke," he cut in, exasperated. "What _happened_. Did she threaten you?"

"No! She…" Clarke swallowed, walking past him so he couldn't see her face. "She kissed me."

Bellamy almost tripped, and he forced himself not to gape when Clarke gave him a hesitant look over her shoulder.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

They stared at one another.

"Did you…kiss her back?" he tried.

"What?! No!" she hissed, whisper-yelling. She didn't have to look so offended. "Finn just died…I can't…I have other things to worry about!"

Bellamy couldn't help grinning at how flustered she was getting over a kiss. He loved it when she lost that serious glower, when her words didn't flow out of her mouth like she'd written hem down ahead of time. He hadn't been able to properly tease her in a while. He'd been too busy trying to convince her he wasn't some masked stalker.

"If the circumstances were right. Would you?" he said, and the question surprised him. He hadn't meant it to come out so…wary.

Clarke paused, her fingers brushing away at the shrubbery. "Honestly…I don't know."

He felt his chest cave in. And then drown in guilt. "Is something…holding you back?"

Was _he_ holding her back? Someone she could never be with? Never forgive?

"What are you trying to say?"

He opened his palms to the sky. "Clarke. It's do or die down here. Kiss who you want while you have the chance."

Even if it killed him.

She deserved it.

She opened her mouth to respond, but then he saw the green gas billow from behind her, and he yanked her away from the rocks.

They sprinted down an incline as Bellamy hurriedly removed the tarp from his pack.

The fog dispersed quickly, cascading like a wave down the hill.

"Get down," he told her, and Clarke snatched the empty pack from his hands and dropped to the mud of the gully. He threw himself on top of her and draped the tarp over them both, pinning the material to the ground and praying they were fully covered.

He could smell the putrid acid skate across the tarp, Clarke's warmth breath on his neck. He knew he was probably crushing her against the soil, but they'd been the smallest team, and they'd been given the smallest tarp.

He was doing his best not to be a pervert about it.

Clarke was watching the green colors splash against the material like wispy clouds, her blue eyes wide, but not afraid.

His body pressed against hers firmly, and he could feel her heart beat, loud and defiant, against his. He tried to keep himself propped up on his elbows out of decency, but he was still weak from his injuries at the Grounder camp. His plank was weak.

Clarke finally looked at him, and although she didn't say anything, he felt like they were having another brutally honest conversation.

A small smile graced her expression, and despite the fact they were literally surrounded by death and poison, it made him smile too.

She poured confidence and strength into him without even moving her lips.

And it made him think about how much he was going to lose when he finally walked away for good.

When he disappeared.

There was no going back now. He'd crossed too many lines. He'd lied too long.

All because he didn't want to hurt her.

And when he left, he'd be killing off another person she'd grown to care about.

 _But,_ Finn's voice came crawling through time and space, _that means you'll finally stop hurting her. For good._

 _She'll be rid of a terrible, selfish person._

 _And she can finally move on._

Clarke's eyebrows drew together, as if sensing his mental discourse.

Before she could say anything, a horn blasted from a mile away, and they both tensed.

The parties were retreating. The acid fog would shut off. And they could terminate the vents. Then bust their butts back to camp and hope for the best.

After another minute, Bellamy lifted a corner of the tarp, peering at clean, crisp forest air.

Satisfied, he flung the tarp off of him and removed himself from Clarke. He offered his hand and pulled her to her feet. She was still looking at him strangely, like she'd noticed a shift in his thinking. The distance he was already beginning to instill.

They needed to work fast.

Drawing out the chemical bomb Raven had fashioned for them, he raced back up the hill, Clarke on his heels.

The grate was easy to spot. It was right where Clarke had been standing several minutes prior.

Bellamy handed the bottle to Clarke wordlessly, and then he pulled on the grate, yanking as hard as he could against the rusted bolts.

He thought it wasn't going to be enough, but with a final tug, the hinges gave, and he shuffled back from the weight of the thing.

He nodded at Clarke, and she took a deep breath before tossing the bomb deep into the vent. The second the bottle collided with the shaft, a loud destructive sound rattled the chamber and the surrounding rock began to cave in, crushing the outlet.

Clarke grinned brightly at Bellamy, and he hadn't seen that triumphant look on her face since he'd taught her to shoot down in the bunker.

It made him want to kiss her.

Which he _wouldn't_ do, probably never would.

Even if he hadn't fucked up and terminated his identity, he didn't think that a romantic relationship was something she wanted from him. They were partners.

They had boundaries.

He jerked his head at her, indicating that they needed to get out of there, pronto.

He expected her to roll her eyes or give that little nod of agreement, not stare at him in horror and alarm.

Then he felt something sharp collide with the back of his head, and he crumpled, trying to shake it off, trying to see through the dark holes in his vision. He could feel a hand at his waist, fishing for his gun.

 _Shit._

He glanced up just in time to see the man in the hazmat suit put Clarke in a choke-hold, and hold a cloth up to her face. The fear in her eyes was a piece of shrapnel in his chest.

Her struggle died as she lost consciousness. He head dipped forward, and the man restraining her _smiled_.

Bellamy growled, forcing himself to his knees. That action alone made him sick, and he swallowed the bile and the dread of losing Clarke forever.

Blood dribbled down his face, and he realized the man had hit him with the grate he'd removed. That explained his state of fucking _uselessness._

 _Shit. Shit. Shit._

It was all happening too fast.

Bellamy swayed to his feet, only to fall over again, defeated.

The man in the Hazmat suit dragged Clarke away, and he could do nothing but watch.

* * *

OoO

* * *

Bellamy stared glumly at the empty canvas of his tent.

He'd let her slip right through his fingers.

"Hey," Octavia said, snapping him out of his reverie. She gripped his shoulder tightly. "We're going to get her back. All of them."

Bellamy nodded.

They'd disabled the acid fog for now. Lexa was setting the current plan in motion.

In less than twenty four hours he would have Clarke back.

He could count on her to survive till then.

He'd been in this position before, after all.

"I can't stay, O," he breathed, letting the weight fall from his shoulders. She turned to glare at him fully.

"What are you talking about?"

"Once we get them out, I'm leaving camp. I can't keep doing this to Clarke. To the others."

"Bellamy. All you have to do is take off that mask."

"It's not that simple."

"It really is!"

"No, Octavia! It isn't!" he yelled, and she shrank back. He yanked the mask off, dragging his hand over his scarred face. "I thought by pretending to be someone else, I could fix things. I could still be here, in the shadows, and take care of everyone. But Clarke started to depend on me, she started to trust me, and now I'm in too deep. If I take off this mask, I become a liar and a fraud. To everyone."

"Bellamy—"

"This is what I do, Octavia. I try to save the people I care about, and I wind up hurting them tenfold. It's better if I leave before that happens. Again."

"You don't think leaving Clarke now will break her? She lost you already. You're really going to do that to her again?"

"Clarke's strong. She never needed me to begin with."

"That's bullshit." She shook her head at him, disgusted. "You played Grounder and realized you could finally escape the labels of the Ark. You could be whoever you wanted. Start over. And you were too much of a coward to drop the charade and come back to reality."

Bellamy opened his mouth and closed it. She wasn't _wrong._

"You're right, Bell. You've taken this too far. But you can either man up and reveal yourself, or you can run away, just like you've been planning from the moment you boarded the dropship."

And with that she barged out of the tent.

* * *

OoO

* * *

"We can't storm the front gates. There are too many variables. We'll need to access the mines. Send a group to breach the reaper tunnels and free our people from the inside."

"And that doesn't have too many variables?" Lexa said. "You asked for my army. I expect you to use it. Not place all of our faith in the hands of a select few."

"It's the only way."

"You and your people say that a lot."

"Look, I don't like this any better than you do. But we don't have time to come up with an entire methodical solution. The fog is disabled, so we can use the army to keep their eyes focused outside, not in. Lincoln and I know the mines. We can lead a team of our best soldiers to free both of our people."

"That's an idealistic plan."

"There's no other kind." Bellamy frowned. "Clarke would back it..if she were here."

They stood in silence for a few minutes, staring down at the battle plans.

"You care about her," Lexa remarked suddenly, eyes drawn with realization.

Bellamy glared. "I care about _all_ of them."

"But you care about her more."

What a smartass. She could pull her nose out of his fucking business. He turned away, trying to burn a hole in the tapestry hanging from the side of the tent.

"Clarke is strong. She's a warrior," Lexa said, as if she were trying to comfort him or something.

"She's _reckless_ ," Bellamy corrected. "She'll throw herself in the fire if it means saving her friends."

He hated it. Her sacrificial nature. She was just like her father. Like his mother. And what did they all have in common again? Oh yeah—early deaths.

"You're weak," Lexa decided, and Bellamy shot her a look. What the hell, Grounder Queen?

"Why? Because I'm worried?"

Lexa leaned against the table, facing him. "Because love is weakness. And your heart is open."

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

Love, _weakness_? No…that couldn't be right.

"Love is strength," he argued, ignoring the fact he'd just confirmed that he did, in fact, love Clarke. "Love. Hate. They keep me fighting."

For Octavia. For Clarke. For his people.

Clarke was driven by logistics. He was driven by his emotions.

Whether or not that was a good thing, he wasn't sure.

"Perhaps. Until they send her severed head to your doorstep," she said, looking through him.

Bellamy stared at Lexa's dark, poisoned eyes, finally understanding.

So she'd lost someone. She'd lost the love of her life, and she'd become a pit of despair and severity.

For the first time, he sympathized with the Grounder.

"I lost my mother," he explained, wondering why he was opening up to Lexa of all people. "But it just made me realize how much value life has. It made me love harder. And fight harder," he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Love isn't the culprit." He shrugged, thinking of Clarke and his sister and those fucking kids up in that Mountain. "It's…the thing that saves us."

Lexa studied him, as if actually contemplating his merit. Then—

"Is that why you hide behind that mask?"

And just like that, Bellamy's blood ran cold.

"I know a member of Skaikru when I see one," she said, resisting an eye roll. Bellamy couldn't breathe. She'd known? Had she known this entire time? He paled at the implications. "The question is, why are you hiding from Clarke? Why are you refusing yourself an identity?"

"I…" He couldn't find words. Shit. If she knew, she knew he'd been lying from the beginning. What if she thought the entire thing was a sham just to get them to ally with the Ark? _Shit_.

But she didn't accuse him of deceit. She merely studied him, coming to some kind of conclusion by the slight nod of her head. "Love has made you weak. It blurs rational thought, and it leads many to ruin. You say it adds to the fire, but those who burn brightly burn fast," she made for the exit. "I'll trust you to prepare the final parameters of the invasion. We leave at first light."

* * *

 **HEYO. Here's a longer chapter to make up for my absence. Not my best work, but we're drawing to a close, so that's exciting! Thank you so much for all the reviews! I'm terrible about replying. Just know I squeal like an idiot over each one.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Look at that. An update. What a concept.**

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OoO

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Bellamy stared out at the assembled crowd. The survivors.

His sister and Indra. Kane and Abby. His missing friends.

And an army of Grounders.

They didn't understand why he was the spokesman for Clarke. For Skaicru.

But they needed a push for this final fight. A nudge and a hopeful heart.

He could give them that.

"Many of us consider one another enemies," he said, his voice firm and unwavering. "We've lost people we loved to a war founded on misunderstanding. We've held grudges. We've held oaths of vengeance. But tonight we put that aside to face a greater enemy."

Octavia's chin rose with pride and confidence, and she gave him a small nod.

"This isn't about Grounders and Sky People. It's about saving our friends. Our loved ones. That's what unites us. Our ability to fight for what we believe in. Freedom. Justice. _Love_. That's what proves we really aren't so different."

He swallowed, thinking of Clarke and the way she'd accepted him, burned and broken, into her life, even after everything the Grounders had put her through. She put aside her resentment for a brighter future.

He could do the same.

"Now I don't care if you all go back to hating each other tomorrow. If this alliance and our ties to another end with this battle," he said, and the army stared at him, eyes fierce, mouths parted. "But tonight, we fight together. Tonight, we bring our people home."

That seemed to resonate with the crowd, and an energetic hum filled the air.

Lexa was watching him attentively, maybe with a hint of respect.

(Probably not, but he'd like so.)

"Let the Mountain Men witness our glory," she concluded.

She raised her sword in the air, and the army roared.

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OoO

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They reached the split in the tunnel, and Bellamy nodded at Lexa, wiping the Reaper blood from his chin.

"Go get your people out of those cages," he said, pouring his faith into her. "I'll search for mine."

She bowed her head, signaling for Anya and a few others to head off into the dark of the cave.

She glanced back at him, her face stoic and fearless. "Save Clarke."

For the first time he saw himself in her—beneath the fortress and the gates and the carefully constructed indifference. There was a person forced into leadership before she was ready, forced to make the hard choices for her people. And someone who cared deeply for others, even if she didn't know how to show it.

"I will."

And with that she disappeared after the others, leaving Bellamy with Kane, Octavia, and most of the factory station.

They blew the lock on the security door, and it swung wide, a high-pitched alarm spinning red color across the dark of the cave.

"We kill armed guards only, is that clear?" he said, facing the open door and the unconscious men lying across the threshold.

He heard his men shift their guns over their shoulders, and he swallowed.

 _Hold on for me_ , _Clarke_.

 _Just a little longer._

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OoO

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Bellamy shot the last guard in the stomach, and he pinned him to the ground as he bled out against linoleum.

"Where?" he demanded.

The man shook his head fearfully, and Bellamy, in all his Grounder glory, closed his fist around his throat.

"Where _are_ they?"

"L-level Five," the man gurgled, eyes fading fast. A little bit of regret and disgust festered in Bellamy's stomach at the blood on his hands. Just not enough to distract him from finding Clarke.

" _What the hell is going on down there_?" a voice hissed from the man's belt.

Bellamy seized the radio, eyes flickering to Octavia and Kane in triumph.

"We're here. We're coming for you, Cage," he growled. "Let my people go, and I'll spare yours."

The man on the other end laughed, and the mental image Clarke had described to him came to life.

Of all the terrible things the Grounders had done, that Bellamy had done, this man took the cake. He was the monster. Untouched by war and radiation. Hands sterile and clean.

But a monster all the same.

"Without your people, my people have no chance," Cage continued.

Bellamy was already running for the fifth floor, Octavia slicing the obstacles to pieces.

He could hear the screams on the other end of the radio. His people. His friends.

"We do what it takes to survive…you know that by now…" the voice sang.

He couldn't get there fast enough.

There were too many soldiers in his way. Too much carnage between him and Clarke.

And then he heard it, the distinct sound of her voice, louder than the others, defiant. Brave.

His gut bottomed out, and he forgot how to move.

At first the screams were resistant, stubborn. But then the drill started up again, and Clarke's voice ran dry on her anguished cries. _She's dying_ , Bellamy thought despondently, _she's dying_.

"Clarke…" he breathed into the radio, voice wavering.

"You can kill us, but you'll lose _her..."_ Cage drawled. "Stand down or she dies."

"I'll kill you," Bellamy responded thickly.

He heard the laugh fizzle out over the radio, and he saw red.

He flew past hallways of confused civilians, sprinting for the dormitory.

When he finally reached the room, he didn't wait. He shot the two men on lookout, then burst through the doors. He spotted Cage, splotched in red, leaning over a medical table, over matted yellow hair, and he didn't hesitate.

Bellamy pulled the trigger and watched the monster crumple.

Octavia and the others soared in the room to take the other guards out, but Bellamy only had eyes for one.

Clarke wasn't moving.

He hurried to her, heart leaden.

Blood soaked through her chest where Cage had drilled, and fuck, that was too much blood.

But when he looked at her face, he saw her wet eyes open, watching him proudly.

"You made it," she breathed.

"I was a little late," he croaked— on the verge of a breakdown—and she gave him a watery smile.

He unclasped her from the table and immediately drew her into his embrace.

He didn't say a word, he simply held her there, his head buried in her hair, trying not to hyperventilate.

Slowly, she drew her arms up around him and hugged him back, fingers digging into his shoulder, legs on either side of him. And she just sighed, melting into him, like she'd been waiting a lifetime.

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OoO

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The fallout of Mt. Weather was better than expected.

Dante was convicted of his crimes, but he stepped down quietly, mourning the loss of his son alone.

They'd established a peace treaty with the remaining officers in the mountain, in which they agreed that the residents would remain unharmed if the harvest chamber was exterminated and the practice forbidden. The civilians were horrified by the dark secrets of their council, and they were more than willing to adhere to the Ark's conditions, especially after the brutal assassination of most of their guard.

Clarke offered trade negotiations. Supplies for a small, monthly blood donation. Nothing more.

Jasper had said goodbye to his girlfriend with tears in his eyes, but he promised to visit her and check in with her over the radio at least once a week. Bellamy didn't really think that was going to work out, but the kid still had that light in his eyes, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to put it out.

The other delinquents rejoiced and reunited with the family that had made it to the ground. Nathan and Monty were a sight for sore eyes, not that they recognized him.

Not that anyone knew who he was.

Or ever would.

Lexa and her army left on good terms.

The Commander had said a few things to Clarke in private, then nodded at Bellamy with eyes that said a lot more than the closed line of her mouth.

Bellamy nodded back, and he watched the army disappear into the forest.

He couldn't say he was sad to see them go.

"No goodbye kiss?" Bellamy teased, as they trudged back to Arkadia, trailing in the back of the group.

Clarke glared at him over her shoulder.

He tried not to smile.

"She actually asked me to go back with her, to serve as an ambassador in Polis," Clarke confessed.

Bellamy felt his throat close up, and his step lagged behind hers.

"I said no, obviously," she continued, glancing back at him, offering a small smile. He nodded, like the idea wasn't troubling. Even though it was. Clarke was too damn difficult to keep rooted in one place. She was like his sister in that way, and he wasn't sure when she was going to disappear.

It seemed like she was destined to walk away, back up to the surface with the flowers and the sunshine.

"I'm just surprised you managed to work with Lexa without one of you killing the other," she praised.

"She's…not so bad, I guess," he relented, catching up to her. A little too unemotional. A little bit _rude_. But a decent leader. For a teenager. "Though, I'm pretty sure she was hitting on me."

Clarke scoffed. "Shut up, Bellamy."

Just like that, the world froze around him and he fell into a void of panic and alarm. She just said….did she actually…

He tried to find his words but came up with a tight, " _What_?"

Her smile dwindled, and she looked away bashfully.

He couldn't breathe.

This wasn't happening.

This wasn't…

"Did you seriously think I wouldn't catch on?" she murmured, sparing him a hesitant glance.

He gaped at her, speechless.

There was no point in denying it now.

"How long have you known?"

She rolled her eyes. "I had my suspicions. The freckles. Certain phrases. But I _knew_ when I heard you over the radio. You called us _your_ people."

"And you didn't _say_ anything?" he cried, humiliated. Horrified.

"I wanted to wait until you were ready."

He shook his head. That was _his_ line.

"I'm sorry. Are you not ready? We can go back to pretending you're a Grounder," she said, and he couldn't handle the sarcasm.

He was deteriorating from the inside.

He should feel relieved. She knew now. She didn't hate him.

But all he felt was dread.

"Bellamy?" she said quietly, voice laced with concern.

He waited, and her face broke with grief and something else Bellamy couldn't pinpoint.

She walked back to him tentatively, and she carefully raised her hands to his mask. When he didn't flinch away, she inhaled and lifted the veil he'd hidden behind for so long.

The wind kissed his cheeks, and he felt exposed. Raw.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't…know how to…"

Clarke wasn't listening.

She caressed his face with her hands, running her fingertips over his scars like they were sacred. Her thumb brushed his brow, the curve of his cheek, his jaw, his lips. She was studying him, not like a patient. Like an artifact.

"For the longest time, I thought you were dead," she whispered. "You _let_ me believe you were dead."

He was still under her touch, gazing at her wet, angry eyes.

"I was scared," he confessed, closing his eyes as she stroked the hair that had grown back away from his forehead.

" _Why_?"

He looked at her cautiously, eyes hooded. Because she knew him like the back of her hand, she understood him, all of him. And his fears.

She swallowed, looking to the side and back.

Then she stood on her toes, and she pressed her lips to his.

He closed his eyes and slid his hand up behind her neck, cradling her head as he pressed back against her mouth.

This was all he ever wanted. Her. Here. With him.

Clarke. And Bellamy.

No secrets. No masks. No kids to save.

Her mouth glided along his, not hungrily, not forcefully, just…fucking finally.

She kissed his cheek, and his nose, and his burned face, and he wrapped his arms around her to keep himself together. To keep her from drifting away, like a dream.

She hugged him back, warm breath against his ear.

"We've all got scars, Bellamy."

He dipped his head, her hair tickling his nose. "They're your scars too, and I didn't want you to be reminded of it all, every time you saw me."

"I'm not," she assured him, chuckling in disbelief and tenderness. "I'm reminded of how much you've done for me. Over and over again." She pulled back enough to look him in the eye, blinking rapidly to keep the tears in. "And I love you for it…"

His breath hitched.

She already knew he loved her. It was so painfully obvious. And it didn't help that she could read him like an open book.

But…she felt the same.

And maybe it wasn't all that astonishing. Maybe this was the end they'd been aggressively fighting for all along.

"I started to love Atlas, too," she admitted, trying to appear angry still and failing. "And then I felt horrible, because I felt like I was replacing you, and I missed you…" Her lip quivered, and she was crying openly now. She smacked his chest halfheartedly. "I'm glad you're not dead."

"Fuck," he laughed, kissing her again, smiling into her skin. "Me too."

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OoO

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They walked back to the gates, and Bellamy stopped just short of the entrance.

Clarke glanced at him, watching his thought process. She retraced her steps, standing beside him as the last few survivors trickled into the camp.

"You okay?"

He looked at her, scarred but beautiful. She'd always thought he was attractive. Beautiful, but broken on the inside. Only vulnerable around Clarke and his sister. Now that part of him trying to heal could be seen on the surface too, like a work of art.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

Her silence prompted him to continue.

"I just…things are different now. A lot has changed."

She didn't know if he meant between them or on the broader scheme of things.

"Are you worried everyone's going to make fun of your missing eyebrow?" she said seriously, and he cracked that smile that she'd missed so desperately.

But he was still nervous, so she took his hand in hers and gazed up at him.

"Together."

He studied her, and she didn't know how she hadn't recognized those eyes back on the bank of that river. Eyes the color of tree branches and caves and the crust of the earth. Full of so much love.

His hand tightened around hers, and he gave a little nod.

 _Together_.

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 ***inserts season 4***

 ***pretends the first half of season 3 did not exist***

 **Well that's a wrap. With a little extra cheese. ;)**

 **Thanks for sticking around!**

 **Check out my other Bellarke fics if you didn't hate this. 3**


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